Soon we will leave this country, you'll hear the angels shout, "Oh, here they come to Heaven, the campfire has gone out."

NIGHT-HERDING SONG

BY HARRY STEPHENS

Oh, slow up, dogies, quit your roving round, You have wandered and tramped all over the ground; Oh, graze along, dogies, and feed kinda slow, And don't forever be on the go,-- Oh, move slow, dogies, move slow.

Hi-oo, hi-oo, oo-oo.

I have circle-herded, trail-herded, night-herded, and cross-herded, too, But to keep you together, that's what I can't do; My horse is leg weary and I'm awful tired, But if I let you get away I'm sure to get fired,-- Bunch up, little dogies, bunch up.

Hi-oo, hi-oo, oo-oo.

O say, little dogies, when you goin' to lay down And quit this forever siftin' around?

My limbs are weary, my seat is sore; Oh, lay down, dogies, like you've laid before,-- Lay down, little dogies, lay down.

Hi-oo, hi-oo, oo-oo.

Oh, lay still, dogies, since you have laid down, Stretch away out on the big open ground; Snore loud, little dogies, and drown the wild sound That will all go away when the day rolls round,-- Lay still, little dogies, lay still.

Hi-oo, hi-oo, oo-oo.

TAIL PIECE

Oh, the cow-puncher loves the whistle of his rope, As he races over the plains; And the stage-driver loves the popper of his whip, And the rattle of his concord chains; And we'll all pray the Lord that we will be saved, And we'll keep the golden rule; But I'd rather be home with the girl I love Than to monkey with this G.o.dd.a.m.n'd mule.

THE HABIT[5]

I've beat my way wherever any winds have blown, I've b.u.mmed along from Portland down to San Antone, From Sandy Hook to Frisco, over gulch and hill; For once you git the habit, why, you can't keep still.

I settles down quite frequent and I says, says I, "I'll never wander further till I comes to die."

But the wind it sorta chuckles, "Why, o' course you will,"

And shure enough I does it, cause I can't keep still.

I've seed a lot o' places where I'd like to stay, But I gets a feelin' restless and I'm on my way.

I was never meant for settin' on my own door sill, And once you git the habit, why, you can't keep still.

I've been in rich men's houses and I've been in jail, But when it's time for leavin', I jes. .h.i.ts the trail; I'm a human bird of pa.s.sage, and the song I trill, Is, "Once you git the habit, why, you can't keep still."

The sun is sorta coaxin' and the road is clear And the wind is singin' ballads that I got to hear.

It ain't no use to argue when you feel the thrill; For once you git the habit, why, you can't keep still.

[Footnote 5: A song current in Arizona, probably written by Berton Braley. Cowboys and miners often take verses that please them and fit them to music.]

OLD PAINT[6]

REFRAIN: Goodbye, Old Paint, I'm a-leavin' Cheyenne, Goodbye, Old Paint, I'm a-leavin' Cheyenne,--

My foot in the stirrup, my pony won't stand; Goodbye, Old Paint, I'm a-leavin' Cheyenne.

I'm a-leavin' Cheyenne, I'm off for Montan'; Goodbye, Old Paint, I'm a-leavin' Cheyenne.

I'm a ridin' Old Paint, I'm a-leadin' old Fan; Goodbye, Old Paint, I'm a-leavin' Cheyenne.

With my feet in the stirrups, my bridle in my hand; Goodbye, Old Paint, I'm a-leavin' Cheyenne.

Old Paint's a good pony, he paces when he can; Goodbye, little Annie, I'm off for Cheyenne.

Oh, hitch up your horses and feed 'em some hay, And seat yourself by me so long as you stay.

My horses ain't hungry, they'll not eat your hay; My wagon is loaded and rolling away.

My foot in my stirrup, my reins in my hand; Good-morning, young lady, my horses won't stand.

Goodbye, Old Paint, I'm a-leavin' Cheyenne.

Goodbye, Old Paint, I'm a-leavin' Cheyenne.

[Footnote 6: These verses are used in many parts of the West as a dance song. Sung to waltz music the song takes the place of "Home, Sweet Home" at the conclusion of a cowboy ball. The "fiddle" is silenced and the entire company sing as they dance.]

DOWN SOUTH ON THE RIO GRANDE

From way down south on the Rio Grande, Roll on steers for the Post Oak Sand,-- Way down south in Dixie, Oh, boys, Ho.

You'd laugh fur to see that fellow a-straddle Of a mustang mare on a raw-hide saddle,-- Way down south in Dixie, Oh, boys, Ho.

Rich as a king, and he wouldn't be bigger Fur a pitchin' hoss and a lame old n.i.g.g.e.r,-- Way down south in Dixie, Oh, boys, Ho.